They Live By The Sword
by ParaCaerOuVoar
Summary: Hunting consumes your life. You cannot have a family, friends, relationships. Seven people are defying these odds and two of them discover that if you live by the sword, sometimes you die by the sword as well.//CONTAINS OCS
1. Chapter 1

**So, I'm rewriting this from before. Same name, same summary, just better quality writing and I'm veering from my original plan just a little bit.**

The bar was buzzing happily, conversations mingling with the old school jukebox in the corner, playing Paint It Black to anyone who happened to be listening. The neon sign over the bar flickered, making the stained and cracked bar top seem shiny and new. The unoccupied barstools showed off their tattered covering, the edges frayed and shabby. The screen of the jukebox was cracked where something had hit it heavily. The glass windows were smeared, leaving a blurred picture of the setting sun outside, the last remnants of light glinting off the various cars and motorbikes assembled in the makeshift parking lot. The bartenders were polar opposites, one a huge man wearing a grubby wife-beater and jeans, his face almost completely obscured by a thick brown beard. The other was a petite blonde woman; she couldn't be more than twenty two. She was wearing a fitted plaid shirt and skin tight jeans, her long hair braided down her back as she handed out drinks and smiles to everyone.

Dean Winchester sipped his beer, eyes flickering around the crowds, apparently looking for someone. His eyes landed on a young woman, maybe twenty four, twenty five and he smiled. She had brown hair, pulled out of her face with a tortoiseshell clip, and thin, wire framed glasses as she flicked through the newspaper sitting on the bar in front of her. Glancing at his brother, sitting beside him staring into his beer morosely, he shrugged and finished off his own beer, setting the empty bottle on the table with a clink.

Edging around people and dodging one incredibly drunk looking man dancing in a cramped space, Dean reached the bar and sidled up to the woman, his trademark Winchester grin on his face. He slid onto an empty bar stool next to her and turned to face her. She looked up, smiling back hesitantly.

'Hi,' he started, signaling for another beer. 'I'm Dean. Can I get you a drink?'

She smiled properly, taking her glasses off. Dean noticed she had piercing cobalt blue eyes that seemed to burrow into his. 'Hi Dean. I'm not interested.' And with that she replaced her glasses and dived back into the newspaper. Dean raised an eyebrow before climbing off the seat and grabbing his beer before heading back to the booth Sam was occupying currently.

'She told you where to stick it, didn't she?' said Sam suddenly, the first words he had spoken all evening.

'Nope. She doesn't swing that way,' lied Dean smoothly, taking another swig of beer.

'Liar.'

'Bitch.'

'Jerk,' countered Sam, and Dean laughed suddenly, causing Sam to look up. 'What?' he asked, and Dean's face became serious again.

'I miss this, you know. Since Stephen, well, I haven't seen you this bad since Jess. You don't talk to me, you barely eat, you come here every night and drink yourself into a stupor. And, you've been having nightmares again.'

Sam looked at him again, frowning slightly. 'How did you-'

'I'm not the heavy sleeper everyone thinks I am,' chuckled Dean, taking another drink, Sam mirroring him. There was silence in the small booth, the only sound the bar life and the jukebox, ticking over to Who Wants To Live Forever.

'I could have saved him,' Sam said quietly. 'He didn't have to die.'

'Yes, he did. He couldn't live, not like that. He asked you to kill him, and you did.'

'But I shouldn't have. Do you know what it's like to look into someone's eyes and tell them that their son isn't coming home?'

'Only a million times,' snapped Dean, getting angry. 'I've been doing it since I was sixteen, you think it gets easier?'

'Yeah, and how many times have you had to say that because you killed their son? He was twelve years old, and I shot him!' Sam stood up, towering over his still seated brother.

Dean jumped up as well, knocking the table out of the way. 'I would have done it! You wanted to do it, you chose this! So don't blame me if you're having nightmares, because guess what? You brought it on yourself!' He spun round and stalked out of the bar, knocking people out of the way before slamming through the door, splintering the wood. Sam slumped in his seat, dropping his head onto the grimy, sticky table. After a while, he noticed the song had changed again, and he ordered another beer, downing most of it in one huge gulp. He gazed around the bar moodily, like his brother had earlier, only this time completely missing the young woman with the newspaper, who was watching him curiously, having heard the whole exchange between the two men. She slipped her cell out of her pocket and tapped out a quick text before gathering her paper and left silently, ghosting out the now splintered door.

Dean sat on the bonnet of his car, scuffing his shoe on the ground. He hadn't meant to get so angry, but sometimes, Sammy was hard work. Winchesters felt things deeply, always had, and while Dean and his father had learnt to keep things inside to prevent them from affecting the job, Sam wore his heart on his sleeve. Always had done. So deep was Dean Winchester in his thought that he didn't notice the woman who had turned down his advances slip away into the night, the only sign she had ever existed the empty glass sitting where she had been, full of half melted ice and a mint leaf.

The sun had well and truly set by the time Sam staggered out of the bar, falling to his knees on the dirt. Dean swore under his breath and climbed off the Impala, making his way over to his brother carefully, not wanting to step in any potholes. He reached Sam and crouched down, heaving one of Sam's arms around his shoulders and hoisting him up, nearly falling himself. He may be the older brother, but at nearly six foot four and over 200 pounds, Sam outweighed him by at least four inches and twenty pounds.' You gotta cut down on the junk food Sammy,' he grunted, helping his half conscious brother into the backseat of the car, laying him down carefully and folding his legs in. Sam turned onto his side and started snoring gently. Dean stood and watched him, still amazed, even now how sleep took years off Sam's face. He looked as innocent and carefree as he had when Dean had gone to Stanford six months ago, before Jess, before Stephen, before the whole freakin' hunt. Shaking his head wearily, he got into the driver's seat and drove off slowly, not wanting to wake the proverbial sleeping giant. Arriving at the motel, he heaved Sam into the room, accidently dropping him on the bed in the process. Sam didn't stir, choosing instead to snore louder. Rolling him carefully, Dean removed his jacket and the black button down shirt he was wearing, leaving him in his jeans and white undershirt. He also took his boots and socks off, placing them by the bed before folding the shirt and hanging the jacket on the peg on the wall. He then undressed himself and climbed into the other bed wearing only his boxers and the amulet he never took off. Taking one last look at his lost baby brother, he rolled over to face the wall and dozed, keeping one ear open for Sam's nightmares.

Dean woke early, watching the slowly rising sun playing patterns across the wall opposite the window. He turned to see Sam's bed empty, and he sat up, panicked, relaxing when he heard the sounds of someone in the bathroom. He climbed out of bed, reaching for a shirt when he heard Sam retching. Pulling jeans on quickly, he had to forgo a shirt while he pushed the door open gently. Lying against the bath tub, one arm curled around his stomach, Sam looked like crap. A thin sheen of sweat covered his face and neck, and his skin was pasty white. His unruly hair was clinging to his forehead and temples, going all the way round his ears to the nape of his neck. Dean crossed silently to the sink, and found a tumbler on the bench. Filling it with cold water, he brought it to his brother's lips and tilted it. Sam drank obediently until Dean took the glass away. 'Small drinks Sammy, unless you wanna upchuck again.'

''M still mad at you,' he mumbled, his eyelids flickering. ''N it's Sam, not Sammy. 'M not twelve.'

Dean rolled his eyes and offered the water glass again, letting Sam's incoherent protests and curses roll off his back.

After Sam had enough strength to stand, he walked shakily over to the sink and washed his face and neck in icy water. He took a quick shower as Dean went for coffee and breakfast.

When Dean returned with bacon sandwiches and freshly brewed coffee, the smell turned Sam's stomach, and he bolted for the bathroom again. When he returned, Dean handed him a cup of extra strong black coffee, deciding that the bacon sandwich would be pushing it. Trying not to breath it in, Sam gulped down the coffee, scalding his throat as the liquid hit his empty stomach. As the caffeine worked its magic, he felt much better, although his bloodshot eyes and pale complexion said otherwise. He dug through his bag for his sunglasses and slipped over his eyes, just in time, as Dean flung the door open, letting the bright sun flood in. 'Come on, we're heading to Nashville, Tennessee.'

'Why?' groaned Sam, squinting at the silhouette.

Dean tossed a pile of print outs at him. 'Three people have been found dead. Rebecca, Catherine and Daniel Vincenzi were found dead in their home. The doors were locked from the inside, as were all the windows. There was no way anyone could have got in or out, which is why they're suspecting the father. Eric Vincenzi.'

'So, how do we know he didn't? Seems pretty standard,' Sam asked, rifling through the sheets.

'Because,' said Dean, taking the sheets off him and handing one back. 'of this.'

Sam's tired eyes focused in on the photo, before wishing he hadn't. His stomach roiled angrily, threatening to empty itself again.

It was the three bodies, only they had been autopsied. The heads and limbs had been removed from the torso, and placed in piles; heads in one, legs in another and arms in another. The torsos had been split in the Y shape popular in post mortems. The internal organs had been removed, the hearts, lungs, kidneys, livers and intestines placed in piles as well, before the torsos had been placed in a triangle shape, top to tail.

'Well, that's fairly disgusting,' he said, dropping the picture face down, not willing to look at it any longer than he had to.

'Pretty much. Eric Vincenzi has MS, there's no way he could do that on his own. It's worth checking out, it gives us something to do until we hear from Dad again.' _And you won't drink while we're hunting._ The thought hung between them, unspoken by both, but still there.

'Let's go then.' Sam heaved himself off the bed, stooping to grab his backpack off the floor, snagging his jacket on the way past. He flinched as he entered the Miami sunlight, but kept his eyes on the ground, away from the sun reflecting off the waiting Impala. He heaved his bag into the back seat and his jacket in the trunk, he wouldn't need it in this heat. Dean brought out the rest of the bags and threw them in the trunk before slamming it shut and getting in the driver's seat. Sam slumped into the passenger seat, closing his eyes. It would be hours before they reached Nashville, and he planned to sleep his hangover off.

They arrived in Nashville as the sun set, driving through a deserted town towards the motel they would be staying at. Dean pulled into the parking lot of The Red Motel, nudging Sam awake. His colour had returned now, and his head was no longer spinning. He unfolded himself from the cramped passenger seat and stretched, his joints popping as he straightened out. Dean got out as well; his hands and hips stiff from driving all day. They checked in quickly and set up in their room. Sam plugged his laptop in and flipped through his dad's journal. They were pretty sure it was a vengeful spirit, but he wanted to be sure. Meanwhile, Dean cleaned the guns and sharpened his and Sam's silvers knives, bitching about how they were low on salt and lighter fluid. The atmosphere was still tense between them, and Sam was loathe to say anything that would aggravate his brother. Dean complained for about fifteen minutes before leaving the room, muttering about a twenty four hour supermarket. Sam listened to the Impala disappear into the night before turning his attention back to the history page he was studying.

_I think I have something, _he thought, flipping his own notebook open and scribbling down notes. In 1928 a prominent surgeon lived in the house the Vincenzi's lived in now. Arthur Howell was the best at what he did, until 1927, when he developed a crippling disease. From the accounts Sam thought it was probably MS, although there was no such thing back then. Anyway, Howell became a recluse, shutting himself up inside his house, only his son and the son's family visiting him. On June 16th 1928, the son, Gavin and Arthur's grandchildren Sophie and Alexander entered the house, and never returned home. Gavin's wife Susanne went to the house and found Arthur cutting up her husband. Her children were already been disemboweled and sorted. The story said that Susanne went insane and killed Arthur before killing herself. Sam checked the illustration of the bodies on the website against the photograph Dean had given him. It was a match. This guy Arthur must have become a vengeful spirit, slaughtering the family. But why wouldn't he kill Eric Vincenzi?

The motel door creaked open and Dean came in, carrying a paper bag full of salt and lighter fluid, plus a huge bag of peanut M and M's. 'Now then, let's kill this son of a bitch,' he said through a mouthful of chocolate, once Sam had explained everything to him. 'Where was the sucker buried?'

'It doesn't say, although I tracked down a Lucy Howell, Arthur's niece. I'll go talk to her in the morning, you go look at the house, make sure we haven't missed anything.'

Sam cleared his bed of papers and his laptop, sweeping them to the floor before undressing and climbing under the covers, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. He hated sleep nowadays, sleep brought him Jess, and Stephen, and on one awful night, his mother. He tried not to sleep, but sometimes, as in the case of today in the car, his body was so tired he slept dreamlessly.

He rolled his head sideways, watching his brother sleep, the covers tangled in his legs. One arm dangled over the side of the bed, and a foot hung off the end. Motel beds were too small for his brother, and way too tiny for his huge frame. He watched his brother's chest rise up and down evenly, and marveled at how easily sleep came to him.

**So, there should be a chapter a day until I get caught up (roughly 10) and by that time I should have a new chapter for ya.**

**Let's see, some pimping, I believe…**

**Bee Winchester David-Your Guardian Angel**

**Bee Winchester David-Blood Of A Hunter**

**CSI-Hunter-Wanted Dead Or Alive**

**CSI-Hunter-Fighting For Salvation, Fighting For Redemption**

**Lover-Fighter-Writer- Alone, Patient and Supernatural**

**Lover-Fighter-Writer- All Good People**

**Lover-Fighter-Writer-Marked**

**Hell, just check my favourite authors and stories list, I recommend everything on it!**

**Until tomorrow, loves!**


	2. Chapter 2

**So, it's tomorrow, so another chapter. I changed this one around slightly, because reading it through I got a couple of paragraphs in and thought 'holy crap, WHAT.' Continuity errors bug me almost as much as retconning certain events *coughendofMyBloodyValentinecough*, so I needed to fix it.**

**I still own nothing.**

_**Eyes. All I can see is his eyes. Big and blue and terrified. Yellow flashes through them, turning his expression from fearful to smug. He smiles at me, revealing small white teeth. 'Nice try Sammy,' he says, his juvenile voice sounding older than his twelve years.**_

_**I don't trust myself to speak, keeping my lips pressed together. He circles round me slowly, keeping his topaz eyes fixed on mine. I match his gaze, turning gradually on the spot. I'm not stupid, I know enough not to turn my back on a demon. Behind me I know that Dean is glaring, but he too keeps quiet.**_

_**He grins, and pulls a long knife from inside his sleeve, almost as long as his forearm. His eyes flicker momentarily, from yellow to blue to yellow. He shakes his head slightly, almost imperceptibly, but I notice. I use the confusion to reach behind my back, snaking my hand under the jacket and pulling out the Colt. Not even Dean knows I have this. He will soon.**_

_**Bringing my hand back round, my fingers curled comfortably around the butt and trigger, I fire, and time slows down. I see his eyes again, wide open as thick black smoke pours out of his mouth, nose, ears and eyes, leaving a very human twelve year old behind. Time speeds up again, and the bullet speeds down the barrel of the gun, entering Stephen's head just right of his nose. He falls to the ground, his once bright eyes dim and unseeing. I'm frozen to the spot, disbelieving.**_

_**Suddenly, everything changes, and instead of looking down, I'm looking up. Scarlet drips from the ceiling, and I'm faced with terror again. Jessica. She's pinned to the ceiling, and judging from the blood on her nightgown, she's been cut almost in two. I make eye contact before the ceiling bursts into flames. Your fault. The words hiss through the room, cutting through me. 'You think I don't know that?' I bellow at the ceiling, falling to my knees, hot tears slipping down my face. 'I'm sorry! I'm so sorry,' I sob, covering my face with an arm.**_

_**Someone is shaking me, someone I can't see. I open my eyes, and the room has gone. I'm lying on the bed, and I can see Dean's face.**_

'Sammy!' Dean shouted, shaking his shoulder. He had made sure to remove all the weapons within grabbing range, the last time he had woken Sam up, Sam had tried to stab him, and it was only quick thinking and even quicker reflexes that had saved him from making like a fish on a chopping block. Sam blinked, opening his bleary eyes and looking up at Dean, confused. 'Wha' time is it?' he mumbled, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

'Almost six,' he answered, climbing off his brother's bed and slumping back on his own.

''nd you woke me up because?'

'Cos you were shouting and it woke me up.' Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to relieve the tension. Giving up on relieving the tension, he rolled off the bed and went into the bathroom. 'Since I'm up, I might as well shower.'

He closed the door and Sam heard the shower running. He lay back down, banging his head off the pillow repeatedly, trying to force the images out of his head. He'd been dreaming about the same thing for the past few months, Stephen's possession and death (although the boy was killed by a normal bullet from a normal gun, in the dream it varied. Sometimes it was this mystical Colt. Sometimes Sam killed him with his bare hands. Those were the dreams he feared the most) and Jess' supposed death. The thing was, Jess wasn't dead.

After Dean had come to find him, he had refused at first, and Dean had left alone. The next night however, Sam woke to the sound of screaming down the hall. He had jumped out of bed, sprinting down to the kitchen to find Jess struggling against a man. No, not a man. He had turned to face him and seen the bright yellow eyes that now haunted his dreams. The man had smiled, before raising his hand and flicking it. Sam had flown backwards down the small hall, crashing into the wall at the end. Scrambling for the bag he kept under the bed, he retrieved the hooked silver knife Dean had given him when he turned fourteen. Spinning round, he flung it at the demon. He knew it was a demon; no human could have eyes like that. It hit him in the shoulder and he screamed. It was an animalistic sound, one that had had Sam clutching his ears. As the demon shrieked, Jess cowered, hiding under the table. With a final screech, the demon spun and disappeared dramatically. Sam had run to Jess, holding his hand out for her, but she shrank away from him, refusing to even meet his gaze.

That night she had confronted him, about the knife, about his brother, everything. And he had told her. He told her how he hunted things, sometimes people, with demons inside them. He told her werewolves and ghosts and ghouls were real, and that it was- had been- his job to stop these things. And yeah, sometimes people died, but he told her of the bigger picture. The one thing he didn't tell her was the death of his mother.

And at the end of his explanation, she sat in silence, looking at her clasped hands, before uttering a single word. 'Out,' she said softly, still not looking at him.

'Jess?' he had asked, confused.

'Get out. I don't want to be around you,'

'Why the hell not? I just saved your fucking life!' he snapped.

'Yeah, by stabbing someone. Apparently a demon, Sam! A demon. Do you know how crazy that sounds? And if, by some miniscule chance you're not crazy, you're either a liar, or a killer! So which is it Sam? Do you want to be a nut job, a liar or a murderer?'

Sam had sat there, silent.

Her voice had softened. 'Tell me you're a liar Sam. I could forgive the lies.'

He had turned to her, his eyes filling with tears. 'I can't. I just can't.'

'Then I guess it's goodbye, Sam.' She turned away from him, walking into another room, shutting the door on him.

'Bye Jess,' he had murmured, before gathering his stuff in a hurry and leaving, phoning Dean once he was outside. Turned out, the sonofabitch had stayed in town, a nearby motel, and was there to pick him up in twenty minutes. Sam had climbed into the car and promptly shut off, answering Dean's questions with monosyllabic answers and grunts.

It still hurt, the way Jess had rejected him like that, but he still didn't know why he was having those dreams. He had assumed it was residual imagination from how his mother was killed, but how could he remember that?

He had heard Dean's story a million times, and his Dad's even more, but he had only been six months old when Mary died, how could he know the little details, the ones Dean and John hadn't told him?

He was so wrapped up in his thoughts; he didn't notice the water shut off and Dean emerge from the bathroom wearing a tatty pair of jeans, one of the knees non-existent. He then rummaged in his bag for a shirt, pulling out a black t-shirt and a green shirt that he left unbuttoned. He pulled his socks and boots on before packing yesterday's clothes back in the bag.

'Hey!' Sam blinked, and was rushed back to reality when Dean shouted and threw something at him. 'Get your ass outta bed, we've got a job to do.'

He rolled his eyes and climbed out of bed, heading for the bathroom. He let the hot water of the shower envelope him, the warmth washing away all the bad feelings from the dream. He felt his muscles unclench and relax, and he wished he could stay under the stream of water forever.

But the hot water ran out soon, and he was left leaping out of the torrent of icy water. This was why he liked to shower first. Dean always used up all the hot water. He shivered and dressed quickly.

Dean gave him a lift to Lucy Howell's home before driving off to the crime scene. At Sam's insistence they were both wearing suits, and they were using their fake FBI ID's. Dean was Aidan Kingsley and Sam was Robert May, this time anyway. Dean made sure they had multiple ID's each, for every law enforcement agency possible, and some they'd made up.

Straightening his tie, Sam made his way up to the front door, knocking briefly. He searched his pockets for the ID, finding it just as Lucy Howell opened the door. 'Ma'am? I'm Agent May, I'm with the FBI. I need to speak to you about a murder.'

Dean parked his beloved Impala round the corner from the crime scene and searched the trunk for a couple of items he knew he would need. First of was the EMF, he needed to search the house for electromagnetic energy. He slid a silver knife into the wrist holster he wore under his suit, and instead of a service pistol, he tucked his own nine mil into the waistband of his dress pants. Slamming the lid, he slipped the EMF in his suit pocket, removing the badge at the same time. He walked round the corner, nodding a greeting to an elderly man out walking his dog. He jogged up the steps to the front door, and glanced around him as he unholstered his knife, and cut through the crime scene tape stopping him front entering. A week after the murder it was unlikely there would be any LEO's left processing, giving him free reign of the house. Searching his pockets for the small torch he took everywhere, he shone it around the room he was in. It looked like the main room to the house, there were couches and a TV in the corner, and bloodstains everywhere. 'Dude, Leatherface has nothin' on you,' he muttered, skirting round the pools of half dried blood. He was wearing brand new shoes. He clicked his torch to the barrel of the gun, allowing him to hold both gun and EMF, while still being able to see where he was going. The EMF wasn't showing anything in this room, and so he slowly and methodically searched all the other rooms, apart from one, hidden by a particularly thick oak door. He'd pick the lock when he was done with the rest of the house.

Something behind him creaked. He spun round, and the movement sent his torch spinning off the gun and landing on the floor, going out. 'Son of a bitch,' he cursed, stooping to pick it up. Something whooshed over his head so fast the wind ruffled his hair. He immediately dropping to the ground and rolled, bringing the gun round, aiming in the direction the swipe had come from. Standing over him was a decrepit old man, holding a scalpel in one hand and an axe like thing in the other, the kind they used to cut through bone in the 20th Century. He fired his gun, but nothing happened. It just clicked uselessly in his hand. He swore again, scrambling to his feet. Suddenly a door swung open in front of him and a voice yelled at him, telling him to drop. So he did, and a shotgun blast flew past him, hitting the spirit point-blank in the chest. The spirit vanished, along with his torture tools. The shooter came out of the shadows, grabbing him by the arm, helping him up. 'Come on, we gotta get out of here, salt stings like a bitch but he'll be back.' Something registered in Dean's brain that the voice was female, but he was still confused by what just happened.

'Yeah, I know that, but how did you know?' he asked, blinking rapidly to clear his eyes of the dust that had flown up when he dropped. His vision cleared, and he rubbed at his eyes as the ghostly figure in front of him became more solid.

'We can go into that later. That was my last rock salt cartridge. Move your ass!'

'I'm goin', I'm goin',' he said, heading through the door, into the sunlight the dazzled him, his eyes used to the gloom inside the house.

He turned to face his helper, surprised by what he saw. She was small, probably no bigger than about five foot six and slim, her subtle curves hidden by a pair of men's jeans and a leather jacket. She kept her long auburn hair tied up in a messy ponytail and her emerald eyes glittered in the sun.

Dean coughed, as well as being blinded by the dust, he had inhaled it as well, and his lungs were rebelling against it. 'You,' he said, between coughs, 'have got some explaining to do. Starting with who you are and what in the hell you're doing here.'

**Right. Important notice here.**

**I recently opened for commissions over on deviantART, for art and fic, so I'm opening them over here for a special cause. Two of my really good friends are kinda going through rough patches right now, so I'm opening up my commissions to donate money to them, cos god knows they need it more than me.**

**If you're interested in commissioning me for fic or for art (the link to my dA page is in my profile), then PLEASE review or message me and let me know you can help.**

**Thanks,**

**PCAV**


	3. Chapter 3

**Pretty much the same chapter. Still the same old crazy lady. Still not mine. You get the picture.**

**So, yeah. This chapter is a little trippy. But I dunno, I kinda like it.**

**Sorry for not updating yesterday, was busy freaking out over psychology. And today I'm still freaking out, but I found the time to take a deep, calming breath and update. I shall elaborate down at the bottom.**

Sam sat down on the chintz sofa, holding a fragile tea cup in one huge hand, the equally fragile saucer in the other. Lucy Howell sat opposite him on another chintz sofa. Sam peeled his eyes off the vile décor, instead focusing on the little blonde lady in front of him. Lucy Howell was at least a foot smaller than him, if not more, and in her late fifties. She had bottle blonde hair and immaculate make up. Perched on her nose were a pair of thick, 'jam jar' glasses, and it was through these she squinted at Sam, as if to make sure he didn't spill his tea, or steal anything.

'Mrs Howell, did you know the Vincenzi's?' he asked, reading the name from his FBI-issue notebook.

'Well, let me think. There was a Danny Vincenzi, he used to come and cut my grass. Lovely boy, always very polite, although…' At this, she put her cup down and lowered her voice in a stage whisper. 'he was always a bit weird.'

'Weird how?' he asked, scribbling down a note in his book.

'He had a metal bar through his eyebrow. Why would he have that? Does it pick up radio for him? It looks horrible, he should have bought a wireless instead.'

Sam sighed, and crossed out his note. He hoped Dean was having more luck at the scene.

Mrs Howell, do you know an Eric Vincenzi?'

'Eric? He's Danny's father. He's in a wheelchair. There's nothing wrong with him though, it's one of those new diseases, with all the initials. MD? ES?'

'MS.' Sam corrected her. 'It's a real disease. How much do you know about your father's brother?'

'Uncle Artie?' she asked, taking a drink of tea, slurping it with her false teeth. 'He was a great man, saved lots of lives.'

'Until he murdered your cousin and his children,' prompted Sam, sipping the tea and fighting not to grimace. He put the cup down on the table, resolving to just leave it there.

'Well,' she wheedled, sucking on her false teeth thoughtfully. 'I suppose,' she finished finally.

'What do you know about that? You'll have heard stories?'

'A few,' she conceded. 'Mostly about my cousin's wife. She was a real piece of work. She was cheating on Gavin you know. A different man every month. No wonder he used to take the kids to visit his dad a lot of the time. If you ask me, Uncle Artie did those kids a favour.'

Sam looked up in horror, his pen poised on the page, held loosely in his hand. 'Excuse me?'

'Killing them,' she confirmed. 'He saved them a life of having a hoe for a mother. And his son's shame of having a slut for a wife. Then the bitch turned round and killed him, after the kindness he did them.'

'OK, thank you,' Sam interrupted, standing up. 'I think I have all I need now.' He reached into an inside pocket and brought out a business card. The cell number on it was fake, as was the FBI landline. One connected to a burn phone, one of several that the brothers kept in the Impala glove compartment, the other connecting to a phone at Bobby's place. He kept about a dozen of these, all labeled with government agencies to corroborate the false agents' stories.

Standing up, he showed himself out, loosening his tie almost as soon as he felt the gentle breeze on his face. Focused on the hunt before, he hadn't noticed what an idyllic place Nashville was, especially this street. Summer was creeping up on them, and the sun was beaming above him. He shed his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves, looking around at the setting. Trees were full and green, and flowers bloomed in gardens, every colour from blue to yellow to red. Kids played in the streets on bikes, girls with jump ropes, boys with soccer balls, watchful parents sitting in the shadows with trays of lemonade and a book, waiting for their children to tire. Sam was filled with a pang of longing as he watched the scene before him silently. He never got a proper childhood, not like this. Dean tried his hardest to teach him to be a child, but how could he when he was being turned into a miniature soldier, a carbon copy of his father?

A soccer ball rolled to his feet and he bent to pick it up, holding it out to the small girl who had come running up to get it. He held it out and she stopped, looking up at Sam's huge, six foot four frame. 'Are you a giant?' she asked, her high clear voice ringing out over the laughter and shouts from the street.

He crouched down, resting his weight on one knee. 'Well, my brother thinks I am, but no, I'm not a giant.'

'Good,' she declared. 'Giants eat little girls. That's what Dean told me.'

'Well, I think Dean was telling you stories. Giants don't eat little girls.' Sam was reminded all too vividly of his brother's tall tales and horror stories, all too real for an eight year old Sam.

'Don't they?' Her face was enraptured. Sam had a feeling she didn't get too much attention at home.

'Nope.' He smiled, and she gazed back, her eyes hazel orbs, wide and curious.

'Hey, Sam!' Both the man and the little girl turned at the sound of a young, cocky voice. 'Where's the ball?' It was a young boy, maybe ten, with jet black hair and piercing blue eyes.

'I'm getting it off the not giant,' she retorted, taking the ball from Sam's hands.

'Wait, you're Sam?' Sam asked, confused.

'Uh-huh,' she nodded. 'Samantha Joan Wilkinson.'

'And Dean is?'

'My big brother.' She pointed at a boy, maybe early teens, a crowd of people around him as he waved his hands enthusiastically, obviously in the middle of a dramatic tale. He was reminded again of his own brother, the great storyteller, attracting a crowd every school they went to with tales of their lives before joining the current school.

'I'm Casaereo,' the boy butted in, evidently not wanting to be left out, stumbling slightly over the Italian name.

'What's your name?' Samantha asked Sam, looking into his face, no longer afraid of his size now that he was down on her level.

'I'm Sa- Robert,' he said, almost forgetting his alias.

'Sam! Cas!' A female voice sounded behind him, and all three turned to look at the woman who stood there on the sidewalk, hands on hips. She was slim and blond, and Sam was suddenly filled with a maternal longing that he couldn't explain. 'Come inside now, Samantha,' she said, beckoning the girl. Sam straightened up, showing her his badge.

'It's OK, Ma'am, I'm with the FBI, investigating a murder investigation a couple of blocks over. Were you familiar with the Vincenzi family?'

'Sammy, why don't you and Cas go play with your ball?' she asked, shooing them away. They ran off, Sammy waving a shy goodbye to Sam. He waved back, and she turned and ran back to a small group of children, her flyaway brown hair bobbing as she went. He kept his eye on her though, noticing the subtle actions of her brother. Small pushes, making her stumble, jeers, making her hunch her shoulders, trying to make the insults bounce off. Sam knew, because he'd been there. Not so much with Dean, once he got older, but with the kids at school, when Dean wasn't around. He'd been a small kid at school, with this wild out of control hair and quiet personality. It had been like bees to honey for the bullies, and they'd come in their hordes. It had gotten easier when he hit sixteen and grew six inches one summer, and bulked up thanks to his father's grueling military regime.

'It was a terrible thing, what happened to Catherine and her children,' said the woman, beside him. 'I didn't think Eric could be capable of something like that, he loved them all so much. Although, who's to say what goes on behind closed doors.'

'Very true,' Sam said, retrieving his notebook. 'Were you close to the family, Mrs, uh?'

'Wilkinson,' she said. 'Mary Wilkinson.'

Sam was hit again with that maternal longing associated with this woman. She reminded him of the mother he had never know, but stared at her photograph a million times. The mother who had died for him.

'Very close,' she continued, unaware of Sam's internal thought process, her voice snapping him back to reality. 'The daughter, Rebecca, used to come over to the house to play with Sammy and Cas, and Dean idolized the older boy, Daniel. I wish he didn't, hadn't,' she corrected herself.

'Why is that?' Sam asked, making another note.

'He was a troubled kid. He wore all this black clothing and piercings everywhere. You know, I think he was a Satanist. If he wasn't dead as well, he would have been suspect number one.'

'What makes you think he was a Satanist?' Sam's brain was working furiously. Had Daniel summoned something that got out of hand? What would leave the bodies like that though? He was sure it had been Howell's malicious spirit. Had both brothers been so wrong?

'He had this necklace, like a five pointed star. A, a pentagram?'

Sam mentally relaxed. 'Actually, a pentacle is the exact opposite. It protects from evil, not encouraging it.' Maybe the kid had twigged what was going on, and had the pentacle to protect himself. Well, it hadn't worked, not this time.

'Oh,' Mary looked confused, covering her reaction with more information. Sam jotted it all down eagerly. 'Eric was a great guy, before he started getting ill. It's like the illness replaced his easygoing manner. He was bitter, and spiteful. I didn't see him much after he was diagnosed, and I'm kinda grateful for that. Does that make me a bad person?'

'No, not at all,' Sam reassured her. 'How long ago was he diagnosed?

'Uhh, about a year I guess. Maybe eighteen months.' She chewed her lip, thinking.

Sam suddenly had a thought. He wondered how long there was between Howell getting sick and murdering his family. 'That's all for now Ma'am. Call me if you think of anything else.' He handed her another of his business cards.

As he walked down the street towards the Vincenzi house, he passed the group of children, spotting Sammy with Cas. He walked past, lost in his thoughts, until he felt a tug on one of his belt loops, and he turned to find Cas and Dean standing behind him. There was a look in Dean's eyes that he couldn't quite figure out, hidden as it was with the same arrogant look his brother used in high school as a defense mechanism. Cas looked small, but confident, his eyes older than his years. Dean barged him out of the way, elbowing him in the side. 'Are you gonna find out who killed Danny?'

'I'm gonna try,' Sam said, watching as Cas slowly drifted off, rubbing his side.

'Uh-huh,' said Dean, following his gaze. 'Do you have a gun?'

'Uh, yes,' stuttered Sam, startled by the sudden change of subject.

'Can I see it?'

'No, I don't think so.'

The adolescent folded his arms, looking up at Sam, raising one eyebrow. 'I bet you don't even have one.'

Sam rolled his eyes. 'Nice try kid.' He stepped around him and pulled his cell out of his pocket, dialing Dean's number.

He didn't answer straight away, and Sam was speeding up, lengthening his already long stride, hurrying away from the family he felt he knew. He couldn't help but wonder how they would grow up. Would Sammy and Dean's obviously strained relationship rebuild as they got older, or would she run away the first chance she got? How would their lives differ from the Winchesters, growing up with a mother, someone to take care of them? A childhood where the monsters in the closet were imaginary, chased away by a parent, not something very real, to be faced head on with a 45.

Would they grow up accepting their fate, or would they fight it, kicking and screaming, like he did?

Sam had no way of knowing, so he merely turned the corner onto the Vincenzi's block, spotting the Impala parked outside a large, old fashioned house. He went up to it. there was no-one in the car, so he ventured into the house, his flashlight out in front of him, the beam scything through the dust like a knife. The back door was open, and he could hear voices, so he moved that way, keeping his eyes and ear open, ghosting silently through the house. Turning the corner, he slipped out the back door onto an open yard, coming face to face with a scene he wouldn't have anticipated in a million years.

_Her…_

**So, yeah, freaking out round about now. Some of you may or may not know, but I entered Big Bang, hence why I've been AWOL since like, January. Sorry about that, by the way. Anyway, I'm sitting here, scrolling through the fics that have been claimed by people who want to design art, and mine's been claimed. HOWEVER, in the comments, there is no mention of my fic whatsoever. So now I'm thinking, did the artist change their mind? Was it a mistake from the mods? Am I imagining the struck out text? *hides under quilt***

**On the other hand, due to Big Bang I have one brand new finished fic and one half finished fic that should be getting posted around about the middle of june-ish.**

**More from me tomorrow!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Another day, another update. Thrilling stuff. Finally hitting something resembling plot. Or backstory. Let's go with backstory. I still don't own them.**

Dean sat on a woodpile, washing his dusty mouth out with a bottle of water that had been provided by the chick sitting next to him. He spat out the sour tasting dirty water, speckled with dust motes, the droplets spattering on the dirt below him.

'OK, who the hell are you, and why are you shooting at ghosts?' he said, glancing around. She turned her eyes towards him, the jade colour glittering in the sun.

'I could ask you the same, thing, except you weren't doing much shooting, more cowering on the floor.' She answered, grinning wickedly. 'I'm Fletch.' She held a hand out, a silver ring on her right ring finger.

He took the hand, smiling back. 'I'm D-Aidan Kingsley,' he said, remembering his fake name just in time.

She arched one perfect eyebrow, looking directly into his eyes 'Nice to meet you D'Aiden,' she replied, her tone polite, but her face showing him she saw right through his identity.

'Ok, that's one question. Stop skipping around the other. Why were you shooting at a ghost?'

'OK, I'll bite,' she said, hopping down from the log, grabbing the discarded shotgun, removing the empty shotgun shell in one of the barrels. 'Ghosts for dummies.' She turned, handing him the shotgun shell. He decided to play dumb, see how much she knew.

'Ghosts, ghouls and every single scary sonofabitch you thought was imaginary? One hundred percent real.' She stole a glance at him, one she didn't think he'd notice. He was listening, oddly curious. 'Ghosts are one of two things. Malignant spirits, or souls that can't move on. The only way to get rid of them is to salt and burn the remains.'

'Salt and burn?' he asked, faking interest. He'd been doing this since he was sixteen, he didn't need some chick telling him how to do his job.

She rolled her eyes. 'You might be pretty, but there's obviously not much going on upstairs,' she sighed, bringing a lighter out of her pocket.

Dean bristled at the remark, but felt an odd sense of pride as his inner teenager metaphorically jumped up and down going 'She thinks I'm pretty!' He squashed the feeling, and returned his dwindling attention back to Fletch, who was flicking the lighter on and off periodically, watching the flames dance in front of her. He cleared his throat and she looked up sharply, annoyed at being interrupted, whatever she had been doing. 'Salt and burn?' he prompted her, smiling.

'To salt and burn you need salt, obviously, and a shitload of lighter fluid, and one of these.' She held up the lighter, before slipping it back in her pocket. 'Then it's bye bye ghostie.'

'But what about the shotgun? Where does that come in?' Dean, despite himself, was enjoying this. The rock slat shotgun shells had been his and his dad's idea; it had been picked up by other hunters and passed around. Speaking of hunters, the name wasn't one he recognized, she was either new or too insignificant to mention. He'd check with Bobby when they next swung by his place.

'Some guy named Winchester, John or Joseph, something like that, discovered a way of packing rock salt into empty shotgun shells. It pisses the spirit off, but it gets it out of your way for a while, giving me time to save your ass,' she sneered, but her eyes showed the joke.

'Just Winchester?' he asked casually, digging through his pockets for a coin, retrieving it and flicking it in the air, sending it spinning heads over tails. 'No one helped him?'

'Not as far as I know…' she said, concentration showing on her face.

Dean fumed silently for a few moments, before stowing the coin back in his pocket and jumping off the log, pacing.

The silence was broken by Fletch quietly remarking about this being his first preternatural experience. 'This your first ghost call?'

Dean laughed, before sitting down on the log again, fingers probing the back of his head; he'd cracked his head pretty hard when he went down in the house. 'You have no idea,' he muttered, cursing internally when he touched a particularly tender point and brought his fingers away to blink at the blood on them.

Fletch watched him flinch as he hit a sore spot, focusing in on the crimson liquid staining his fingers. 'You're bleeding,' she said, moving over and perching on the log behind him. A cool hand was placed on the side of his head to steady it as another pushed the hair away gently to reveal a gash about an inch long, blood oozing slowly out. She rolled her eyes as he cowered away from her touch, tapping him lightly on the temple. 'Don't be a baby,' she remonstrated, pulling a bottle of amber liquid out of her bag, along with cotton wool and a needle and thread.

She offered the bottle to him, and he took a long drag. 'It's two AM somewhere,' he quipped, handing the bottle back. She soaked the cotton wool in alcohol, and paused before pressing it into the wound.

'This is gonna hurt like a bitch,' she warned him, watching his hands clench into fists by his side. She dabbed the cotton wool onto the cut, and to his credit, he stayed stock still, a repressed whimper escaping his tightly pressed together lips. She worked quickly, knowing it stung, and threw the cotton wool into a side pocket of her bag, threading the needle and stitching the wound together neatly, while it was still stinging. 'There you go,' she declared, hopping off the log, landing neatly on her feet. 'you probably just caught it on a nail in the floor. No ghost busting for a while, OK?'

Dean laughed. _Not likely, _he thought bitterly, prodding at the stitching. She'd done a good job, from what he could tell, better than Sam's half assed stitching. Never again, he'd vowed, after having chased a spirit round a mansion house for a good half hour, it had proceeded to throw him into the nearest wall, lodging the biggest splinter that wasn't actually a tree in his arm.

Now, courtesy of Sam's shitty sewing, he had a jagged pink scar running up his left bicep, complete with puncture wounds from the crappy needle from the complimentary sewing kit in the motel bathroom, and a promise from Sam that the next time Dean needed stitches, he would do them himself or take a trip to the emergency room.

Thankfully he hadn't needed stitches since. Until now. Until this chick had waltzed in, and his gun had jammed, and he had generally fucked up the job.

He heard shuffling from inside the house, and spun round to come face to face with his brother, staring at something behind him. He threw a look over his shoulder, but the only thing there that wasn't wood shaped was Fletch. He looked back at Sam, who was still gaping.

'Hey, Rob?' There was no reaction from Sam, so Dean extended an arm, clicking in his face. 'Rob?'

Sam blinked, his eyes focusing in on Dean's face. 'Rob?' he asked, shaking his head slightly.

'Yeah,' Dean stated pointedly, giving him the look that said just go along with it moron. 'Rob May, remember. I'm your buddy, Aidan.'

He turned back to Erin, flashing her a brilliant grin. 'This is my partner, Rob. Not the sharpest tool in the box, but good in a brawl.' He noticed she had the same glazed look in her eyes, and he frowned, confused. 'Fletch?'

'Sam?' she whispered, suddenly looking much smaller than her five foot six frame.

'Wait, what?' Dean felt like he was intruding on a private moment between two very close people, and shuffled on the spot.

Suddenly, she seemed to snap out of it, and stormed over to Sam, reaching right up and slapping him across the face, jerking everyone out of the daze they were in. 'I thought you were dead!' she shrieked. 'I watched you die! I grieved for you, you son-of-a-bitch!'

Dean expected Sam to retaliate, but he just stood there, looking guilty. He abandoned all pretence; she clearly didn't buy the fake ID. 'Sammy, who is this girl?'

Sam swallowed, his cheeked tinged pink where her hand had connected with his skin. 'This is Zoe,' he started. 'She saved my life five years ago.'

**See you guys tomorrow!**


	5. Chapter 5

**OK, I have no excuse for not updating Friday, but yesterday I was a little busy freaking out about both the SPN finale *has paper bag ready* and my newest piece of original fiction, which is quickly taking on a life of it's own. So, yeah. Sorry. Here's consolation, I hope.**

Zoe Fletcher froze when she saw Sam standing in the shadows. At first she thought she was seeing things, then she just saw red. Striding over to him, she reached up and put as much force as she could behind a slap, the cracking sound flooding over the deserted woods behind Vincenzi's old house. She half expected him to fight back, like the old Sam would have done, but he did nothing, merely looking at his feet, hair falling into his eyes, just like always. He couldn't meet her gaze, even when she stood right in front of him, he just looked away. 'I thought you were dead!' she cried, shaking with anger. 'I watched you die! I grieved for you, you son-of-a-bitch!' All the emotions she had felt for the past five years poured out of into this rage, everything she had bottled up just erupted out of her, blowing up in his face.

Behind her, the FBI agent cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. 'Sammy, who is this girl?'

Sam swallowed, a rosy tinge spreading across his cheek where her hand had connected. 'This is Zoe,' he started. 'She saved my life five years ago.'

'Don't know why I fucking bothered,' she spat, whirling around and stalking past Dean, disappearing into the foliage surrounding the house, slipping her shotgun into her jacket. She fought furious tears as she wove in and out between the trees to where her truck was parked. Her dogs, apparently sensing her coming leapt out of the bed of the truck and padded over, snuffling at her legs. She slumped down by an old tree stump, winding her hands into Bear's fur, burying her head in his shoulder, allowing herself a moment of weakness. Sabrina wound round and round her legs; eventually settling on her feet companionably and Zephyr nuzzled her shoulder with his huge head, licking at her face. She laughed through her tears, pushing him away, wiping the drool off her face.

'It's so unfair guys,' she muttered, scratching behind Bear's ears, eliciting a loud rumble from his chest as he purred in contentment. 'Life was going great, why does _he _have to show up, supposedly back from the dead?' She wiped away a tear, before standing up, unseating Sabrina from her perch gently. She shooed them back into the truck, slinging her shotgun into the case fixed to the truck bed. Climbing into the driver's seat, she started the engine and drove away, ignoring the fact that no matter how fast she drove, the past was always waiting to catch up with her.

Dean turned back to Sam, his eyes questioning. 'You want to tell me what the hell just happened?' he asked, taking another swig of the bottle she had left behind.

Sam signed, and went to sit on the log Dean had previously vacated. 'You remember the year you broke your leg falling down the stairs drunk?'

Dean sniggered. 'Yeah, that was a hell of a party. Hell of a hangover too,' he admitted, but Sam interrupted him.

'Me and Dad went to LA, there was the uh, the witch problem.'

Dean thought back, nodding. 'Yeah, they were uhh, killing minor celebrities, fashions models, everyone prettier than them.'

'That's the one. Me and Dad told you we had to stay a little longer to track down a fugitive from the Coven?'

'But that wasn't the reason, and I'm guessing this Zoe is?'

'We came across her during our initial investigation, she's the daughter of a woman we thought was in the Coven.'

'But she wasn't?' prompted Dean.

Sam nodded, continuing. 'When we found the real members of the coven, Dad and I got separated. They pinned me down in the kitchen of this old house, they were gonna sacrifice me when Fletch- that's what we called her-' he added as a sidenote. 'burst through the door, guns blazing. Literally.' He laughed, remembering the tiny nineteen year old kicking down the barricaded door, 50. Caliber Desert Eagle in each hand. She'd shot sparsely and accurately, taking down each witch quickly and effective, a bullet to the head or heart. 'Turns out she was a hunter. A damn good one. We got wind of a shapeshifter in San Diego about half a week after shutting the coven down, and she wanted to come with.' Sam picked at a loose thread in his holey jeans, not meeting Dean's gaze. 'Anyway, apparently Winchester's aren't quick learners, because we split up to track down this shape shifter and it, uh, it got me, I spent the next twenty four hours tied up in the sewer,' he muttered, sounding suitably ashamed about that. 'The rest I heard from Dad. He figured out the Sam he was riding around with wasn't me, and got it in the heart with a silver bullet. Only, uh, evidently Fletch saw. She flipped out at dad, he decided the best thing to do was give her the number of Hyde and skip town. It wasn't like we were ever going to see her again; I figured she'd get over it and move on. Apparently not,' he finished, scratching the back of his neck.

'And now Fletch is back in town,' concluded Dean, taking another swig and screwing the lid back on the bottle. 'Let's head back to the motel, regroup, get this piece of crap,' he hefted the pistol in the air at this. 'working again. And then, I need a drink.'

'And the quarter bottle of whiskey you just drank while I was talking doesn't count because?' Sam sniped, climbing off the log and brushing splinters from his jeans.

'Because I hate whiskey,' retorted Dean with a grin, but Sam noticed him slipping the bottle into his pocket slyly. He didn't blame him, after Stephen's death they both drank to forget when it got too much. He merely shook his head as they headed back to the parked Impala, skirting around the exterior of the house; neither wanted to chance meeting the spirit.

Later that night, after cleaning his 9mm with much swearing and cursing, aimed at the maker of the gun, the cleaning products, the motel's lumpy beds and crappy shower, Dean threw himself onto a barstool at the first bar he found in the town. He ordered a shot of tequila and a beer and threw money onto the table in case he had to leave in a hurry, before throwing his shot back and turning in his seat to survey the bar behind him. It was pretty much the same as every bar he frequented, old and dingy. A fruit machine sat in the corner, its neon lights fizzing intermittently. A pinball machine slumped next to it, both machines run down and abandoned. A juke box was located by the entrance, at the minute churning out Bon Jovi's _Stick To Your Guns_ at full blast. Along the back wall were three scuffed and chipped pool tables, one of which was privy to a game between some six foot six gang banger in a leather jacket with the arms ripped off, tattoos swirling up and down both arms and up his neck onto his shaved head, and someone very familiar. She shook her head, sending her copper hair shimmering over her shoulder as she bent over the table, her small stature making it difficult to reach the shot. On the table next to her hip was a bottle of beer, a small array of shot glasses next to it, some full, some empty. With an appreciative sound, he sunk one of her balls and stood up again, smiling at her opponent. 'I win again. Did you say a hundred bucks for the winner?' she asked sweetly, tipping her head back, along with a shot glass.

With a scowl, the gang banger threw a handful of notes on the table before grabbing his beer and heading to a booth where his friends jeered him, wolf whistling the small red head as she sauntered past towards the bar, and Dean.

He swiveled back round, nursing his beer and she parked herself next to him, ordering another beer. He thought maybe she didn't recognize him, until she suddenly spoke up, her voice playful. 'Hey D'Aiden,' she teased gently, showing him she still didn't buy his slip up. He turned to look at her, meeting her sparkling emerald gaze evenly. Despite all the empty shot glasses and this being her second beer, she was remarkably sober, or maybe just good at hiding her inebriation.

He smiled winningly. 'Zoe, right?' He smoothly took another gulp of beer.

'Fletch,' she corrected him, peeling the label of f her bottle, shredding the pieces of paper into a tiny pile.

'Fletch,' he mulled it over silently.

'Call me Zoe, and I'll feed a very valuable part of your anatomy to my dogs,' she continued, picking at the leftover glue that had held the label to her bottle.

Feeling oddly uncomfortable discussing certain body parts, and to be brutal, Dean Winchester had absolutely no problem discussing or using that part of his anatomy with total strangers, so, confused that he was suddenly turning into his brother, he changed the subject. 'Sign of sexual frustration you know,' he commented, nodding at the small pile of shredded paper.

She looked at him again, and her eyes took on such intensity that he couldn't meet them, instead staring into his beer, swirling the dregs around the bottom of the bottle idly. 'Excuse me?' she asked, irritation seeping into her voice.

'You know, peeling the label off of a bottle. It's a sign of sexual frustration. I mean, to some, I wouldn't know for sure but you know, there are people who…' he trailed off, suddenly very aware that she was looking at him with amusement.

'You talk too much,' she said, grabbing the collar of his jacket and pulling him into a searing kiss that left him gasping for breath, his lips tingling at the taste of her. He hadn't been expecting that.

Fletch was freaking out. Apparently she couldn't hold her liquor as well as she thought she could. What the hell was she doing kissing a complete stranger? That might have been what she did in the past, but she wasn't the one night stand kind of girl anymore. She'd gotten over that. Still, she thought, he was pretty cute, and a hell of a kisser. She could allow herself this, one more night of no holds barred sex, one more night of being close with someone before inevitably waking up in the morning to a cold, empty bed and housekeeping banging on the door brusquely. She grabbed his hand, leading him out the door into the brisk air outside, where he turned around, grabbed her by the waist and pushed her against the wall by the door, sealing his lips on hers. It was a gentler kiss, tender, as if he didn't want to hurt her. That surprised her, as did the fact that his hands remained planted firmly on his hips, not wandering round to land on her ass, like most guys did. She broke the kiss, and he kissed along the line of her jaw, planting soft kisses down her neck 'You know,' she whispered, arching her neck to give him easier access, 'I don't even know your real name.'

He pulled away and smiled at her, his jade eyes flashing. Her knees went a little weak at this simple action, and she told herself to pull herself together. But God, that smile…

'Dean,' he murmured, pulling her gently over to the Impala. 'My names Dean.'

Then Fletch did something that surprised them both. She grabbed Dean by his belt and pulled him in for another kiss, before pushing him against the side of the car, not breaking the kiss. She was a very dominant person in real life, but rarely did she take that side of her into her intimate moments. 'Nice to meet you Dean. My place or yours?'

**More tomorrow!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Yeah, I know, I missed a day again. Sue me.**

'Nice to meet you Dean. My place or yours?' she whispered into his ear, nibbling slightly at the lobe.

'Yours,' he muttered, running a hand up her side, his hands skimming the waistband of her jeans under the untucked shirt she was wearing, feeling the soft, warm skin with his fingertips. Their lips met again as she moved her hands to his slim hips, sliding them round to slip into his back jean pockets. This kiss was much more heated, tongue and teeth and lips clashing against each other as they held each other close, their bodies seeming to mould together perfectly.

A hand tapped on Dean's shoulder, and he ignored it, wrapping his arm around her waist. The hand tapped again, more violently and he untangled himself to swivel round to face the gang banger from earlier, Fletch's former pool rival. 'Your bitch here owes me money,' he snarled, his features contorting into an expression that was clearly meant to be intimidating, but just wasn't.

Dean turned around properly, facing up to the gargantuan man. 'OK, first of all, you don't talk about her like that. She's no one's bitch,' he spat, throwing the word out scornfully, showing the guy exactly what he thought of his accusations, before continuing. 'and second, from what I saw, she won that money fair and square, so do us all a favour, and run back to your little biker buddies, get drunk and sit in a corner crying.' Satisfied with his response, Dean turned away, only to be blinded by white hot pain as a meaty fist collided with the side of his head, sending him flying to the ground, blood tricking from a cut on his temple. He blinked dazedly, trying to clear his vision as the gang banger stepped over him, kicking him offhandedly in the ribs. He struggled to his feet, his vision blurred. There was no way tiny Zoe could take on a giant like that bastard and win.

Zoe watched the scene unfold in front of her, her heart twinging when Dean defended her to the biker, followed by a rush of panic when he was cuffed to the ground and kicked roughly. He groaned, blinking rapidly as the biker advanced on Zoe, holding out a shovel sized hand. 'Just give me the money sweetheart, and I'll leave your boyfriend alone,' he leered.

'Go to hell,' she snapped. 'I don't owe you anything.'

With a movement that belied his size, he grabbed her wrist and twisted, sending her flipping around and her shoulder popped out of its joint suddenly. She cried out in pain as he flung her to the ground and she knocked her head sharply on the gravel covered ground, black rushing in on her as she lost consciousness.

Dean's vision cleared slowly as he clambered to his feet, cursing God, Buddha and any other deity that crossed his mind that he wasn't packing. He wobbled slightly, but seeing Fletch on the floor gave him a steely reserve. He may have a reputation from his brother as being a womanizer, but his dad had taught him that there was a very special kind of scum bag that hit a woman, and especially one as slight as Zoe. There was no way in hell she could have defended herself from this onslaught. He launched himself at the biker, falling easily into the street fighting style his father had shown him, finding it easier to adopt than the more strict martial arts, leaving that to his younger brother. His sudden attack seemed to have taken his much bigger opponent by surprise, getting in a couple of solid hits before a fist shot out, cracking his head back with the force of an eighteen wheeler truck and he sat back down, his ass connecting with the sidewalk heavily. His vision swam again as the biker spat at him derisively before lifting his boot to most likely stamp on his face, breaking his nose before the boot was yanked out of his sight as someone behind the biker grabbed him and pulled him back. Dean blinked again, convinced he was hallucinating, but it didn't work. He was still watching his normally peaceful brother beating the crap out of his assailant. He snapped out a roundhouse kick, catching him in the stomach then bringing his knee up as he doubled over knocking him out. He fell back, catching his arm on an expensive looking Harley motorbike, hopefully his own.

Sam stooped to help his brother to his feet before picking Zoe up gently, like she was a doll, not a person. Her head lolled in the crook of his arm and his shoulder as he handed her carefully to Dean, who cradled her against his chest, letting the blood drip onto his shirt, supporting her dislocated shoulder with great care. Sam delved in Dean's pockets, retrieving the Impala's keys and hopping in the driver's seat after helping Dean into the back seat with Zoe. He pulled out of the parking lot, but the movement barely registered, all of Dean's attention focused on Zoe's pale face and the scarlet blood adorning it, seeping slowly and thickly out of the gash by her scalp. Her eyelids fluttered weakly as they pulled into the parking lot of the motel and they hurried into the room, careful to not let anyone see them. Dean laid her down on his bed, clearing the magazines and fast food wrappers with a sweep of his arm, sitting down on Sam's bed as a wave of dizziness came over him. Sam raced over from the dressing table where he had been searching through his duffel bag for the first aid kit they carried around. Dean was notoriously accident prone when inebriated and Sam was forever patching up his babbling drunken brother. _He must really love me_, mused Dean woozily, holding onto the bedpost as the sensation threatened to overturn him onto the floor. There was a strong arm on his bicep and he looked up into the concerned face of Sam, holding a cloth to put on his wound. He pressed it in and the dizziness subsided. They both glanced over to Zoe's unconscious figure, her chest slowly rising and falling.

'Is she gonna be OK?' Dean asked softly, taking a swig from the glass on the bedside table and grimacing at the taste of the day old water.

'I guess so,' replied Sam, moving over to check her pupils. 'We just gotta wait for her to wake up.' Gently, he lifted her upper body off the sheet, slipping off the leather jacket, folding it neatly on the end of the bed. Spreading across the shoulder of her pale blue shirt was a darkening bloodstain. Sam frowned, unbuttoning the shirt and slipping that off too, careful not to catch her injured shoulder. Dean crossed the room slowly, fighting off the remnants of the nausea that dizziness was causing. The blood, which was now soaking into the soft fabric of her white cami, making it cling even more to her subtle curves, was trickling slowly from a deep, half healed gash running from her collarbone down her shoulder. The remains of careful stitches lay scattered in the wound tract. 'Aw crap,' muttered Sam, going into the bathroom and coming out with a towel, pressing it on the wound gently but firmly, trying to stop the bleeding without damaging the joint even more. 'You better hope she wakes up soon,' he said grimly, his hair falling into his eyes. 'Otherwise she'll bleed to death.'

'Come on Zo,' muttered Dean, moving round to sit on the other side of the bed, looking down at her face. She seemed so much smaller lying in the middle of the queen sized bed. As if she had heard her name being called, her eyelids fluttered again, Dean catching a glimpse of her emerald irises. 'Hey, Zo, listen to my voice,' he coached, tapping her cheek lightly. 'Wake up, open your eyes.' He paused, thinking. 'Hey, Zoe?' he tried.

Her eyelids fluttered again, and her lips parted, mumbling something, but no words came out. Her tongue darted out, moistening her lips. 'Call me that again,' she whispered, 'and there won't be enough of you left to fill a matchbook.'

Dean grinned up at Sam, who had been watching the exchange with interest. 'Fletch,' He reverted back to her nickname easily, 'this is gonna hurt just a bit.' He gave the nod to Sam, who gripped her arm and shoulder firmly, popping the shoulder back in quickly and effortlessly. She blanched at the pain, repressing several choice curse words.

'You OK?' Sam asked her, and she nodded tightly, pressing her lips together.

'I'm good,' she managed, her hands twisting into claws, latching onto the bed sheet, stopping when she realised that when she did that, the pain in her shoulder increased. She looked to one side, swearing loudly when she saw the cut on her arm. 'You took my stitches out?' she asked, glaring at Sam.

He looked at her, raising his eyebrows disdainfully. 'Yeah, cos I'm a complete idiot.'

Dean sniggered, stopping when Zoe turned the glare on him. Sam put an end to the awkward silence by retrieving a needle and thread. 'I'm just gonna stitch up your arm again, then dress the wound on your head, OK?'

'Like hell you are,' said Dean and Zoe at the same time, before Zoe turning, wincing from the pain in her neck to look questioningly at Dean.

'He's a crappy surgeon,' he said, by way of explanation. 'I'll stitch you up, he can do the head wound.'

'Actually,' she replied, trying to sit up. 'He can go to hell. He's coming nowhere near me, ever again.'

'Oh, don't be so childish, I'm only trying to help,' snapped Sam, his voice filled with frustration.

'What, like you were trying to help in San Diego, faking your own death?' she snorted in derision.

'I was gonna disappear anyway, you knew that, besides, you think I had any say in it? I was in the sewers the whole time!'

'A phone-call wouldn't have killed you!'

'Hey! Guys! Guys! Shut the hell up!' roared Dean, before blinking repeatedly. The blow to his head had brought on a full blown migraine. 'If you want me to fix you up, I gotta do it now, before I curl up in a corner with half a bottle of vicodin and go crazy, so please, save your little bitchfest for when I'm passed out on painkillers.'

They both quietened, both having the good grace to look guilty. He quickly and efficiently stitched up both wounds, dressing them with gauze and tossing her a bottle of painkillers and handing her a glass of water, before he slammed out of the motel room, wanting to sleep in the car, keeping noise to a minimum. Sam and Zoe were left in the room, Zoe glowering at him. Eventually, Sam stood up, grabbing his jacket. 'I'll get another room,' he muttered, leaving a lot more quietly than Dean. Zoe directed a final glare in his direction before curling up on the bed, careful to lie on the side which wasn't healing and fell asleep almost instantaneously.

Outside, Dean snored gently in his car, blood drying on his temple.

In the room next door, Sam shifted in his bed, knowing that when he fell asleep, as he inevitably would, the nightmares would come once again.

**More tomorrow! **


End file.
